Red Roses

The terrors of towers of thorns upon thorns,
through the frozen and frigid garden he crept,
On his hands and his knees, ever freezing and slow,
The nighttime was heaven, yet nobody slept.

But a flicker of red, like a small drop of blood,
Stood perched high atop it's frosty dead throne.
Only one of it's kind, the last rose in the garden,
The prize this brave boy would soon call his own.

Greedy yet selfless, he grabbed at the thorns,
His vision fixed forwards, eyes frozen in fright,
His hands were ripped open in neat little cuts,
His skin a pale and death stricken white.

But with ambitious tendencies, foolish and blunt,
He could not live without the rose's warm glow.
He stole it from heaven for someone he loved,
And collapsed in a cold bloody mess in the snow.

His thoughts quickly vanished, and in came the dreams,
which comforted him through his icy descent,
He died holding petals, his weak, guilty heart
singing songs of the sins he could never repent.

From the moment he saw her, he knew it was love,
It was something so easy to understand.
He was only trying to show her his love,
That's how he hurt his hands.